Keep Calm and Let the Admin Assistant Handle It
by VikingSong
Summary: Modern Mergana AU: Merlin is the new admin assistant in the corporate office of Pendragon Enterprises, Morgana is a junior exec in marketing, and Arthur...well, Arthur's just technologically inept. Merlin and Morgana bond over making fun of Arthur, but soon it becomes something more than that...
1. Prologue

**Summary:** Modern Mergana AU. Merlin is the new admin assistant in the corporate office of Pendragon Enterprises, Morgana is a junior exec in marketing, and Arthur...well, Arthur's just technologically inept. Merlin and Morgana initially bond over making fun of Arthur, but soon it becomes something more than that...

**Rating:** T for themes/implied themes, just to be safe (frankly because Gwaine is, well, Gwaine). No slash, no smut, no language.

**Genre:** Romance, Humor (Pairing: Merlin/Morgana)

**A/N:**

Have you ever seen those vinyl decals/stickers that say something along the lines of "I'm a writer...be careful, or you'll end up in my novel"? This fic is one of those times. I'm a classically-trained musician with a day job and I spent the first couple of years after college working as an admin assistant. Every single one of the examples of Arthur's tech ineptitude in this fic come directly from my work experiences: each one is a true story of something I have been asked to do or told to fix, at one point or another (only inconsequential details have been changed to either protect anonymity or to effectively translate something from an American setting to a British setting). So this is a personally-cathartic little fic for me. ;)

Also: I did my best to give this fic a lot of authentic contemporary London details, including locations and slang/idioms, but as much as I'm loath to admit it, the last time I was actually in London was nine years ago. (*sigh*) I've tried to update and supplement my first-hand knowledge with research, but I do humbly ask, if you're a Londoner reading this and you catch any inaccuracies or see things I can do to make this fic better and more authentic, would you please review or PM to let me know? Thanks! xx

Okie dokie, I think that about covers it. Oh, wait: I don't own _Merlin_, but I do have permission to use the customized 'Keep Calm' cover art. ;)

And if you're here because you've been reading _The Prophecy_, thanks for taking the time to read that and for checking out this project, too...and now for something completely different:

**Prologue**

Morgana Gorlois-Pendragon, junior executive of marketing, sat in her office on the 15th floor of Pendragon Enterprises in Canary Wharf, overlooking the lovely autumn colours in Canada Square Park. She had a report to prepare for Friday's board meeting—a comparative analysis of the efficacy of their various marketing campaigns for the past fiscal year—but it was a boring report and it was only Tuesday, after all. The view over the top of her MacBook, afforded by the modern glass walls of the offices which ringed the reception area of the executive suite, was much more interesting. Across from her open door, the new hire sat at the reception desk.

As she tried aimlessly to focus on her report, she heard the phone ring at the reception desk.

"Pendragon Enterprises, Merlin speaking. How may I help—oh, Mr Pendragon! Yes, sir, of course. I will be right there."

He dropped the phone back on the cradle and jumped to his feet, only to trip over the rolling chair he'd just vacated. His momentum sent him sprawling forward on a face-first collision course with the industrial carpet—but he caught himself at the last second on the edge of the reception desk with his elbow.

_Ouch_, Morgana thought with a twinge of sympathy that felt suspiciously like a bruise, _That's going to leave a mark._

"Um, situation normal!" A disembodied voice from somewhere behind the desk and the jumper-clad elbow announced cheerfully to no one in particular.

Morgana couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth as the man righted himself before dashing off toward her half-brother's office, three doors down from hers.

The frosted glass sidewalls of the offices didn't afford nearly as nice a view. She could tell, though, from the body language of Arthur's silhouette that his day was not going particularly well...which meant that the new—_uh, that Merlin's_—day was not going to go particularly well, either.

She sighed and went back to her report.

_None of __this_ _data __is_ _new or interesting, because we haven't actually tried anything new or interesting in the past five years._

Maybe she would just use all her fancy marketing and communications skills—_The posh degree had to be good for something, right?_—to make her report interesting and compelling, even if the content inherently wasn't. _Maybe one day I'll actually get to make some decisions, get to try something new._

With a furtive glance at the execs in the offices on either side of hers, she opened a different file on her computer—the file where she'd been compiling all the ideas she had for new marketing campaigns that she'd probably never even get to pitch. While being the daughter of the CEO meant a nice salary and job security fresh out of uni a few years ago, she had been determined to prove that she was worthy of the job and not just there as office decoration.

_I refuse to be a 'sexy lamp with a post-it.'_

She'd used her birth name—Gorlois—exclusively, she'd showed up early and stayed late nearly every day. She'd spent hours at the flat she shared with Arthur, curled up in her lounge in baggy jumpers and fuzzy socks, pouring over industry trend reports and doing extra research on competitors' marketing strategies. After three years, though, it had become clear to Morgana that her non-relative supervisors weren't particularly interested in whether or not she could really excel at the job. They seemed resigned to her continued presence in the role—she was the boss' daughter, after all—but apparently they'd decided from day one that it didn't mean they needed to take her seriously. She would always be the nepotism hire to them, no matter how hard she worked to prove herself.

It also meant that she got stuck with all the boring reports.

She had easily compiled all of the data and completed the in-depth analysis on Monday, so she had the rest of the week to work on the presentation because, despite asking for additional projects, this was all she'd been assigned—no, allowed—to work on this week.

She looked up as she heard Merlin returning from Arthur's office, looking significantly less chipper than before. Morgana glanced down again at her stupendously uninteresting report and her pipe-dream file of ideas, then back up at the reception desk. She might not have the power to fix her job problems, but she might be able to fix the damage her brother had evidently done to the new hire's first day. After all, turnover was expensive to the company—and there had been a lot of turnover in that particular role.

_I'd probably bail, too, if I had to report directly to Arthur. _

She closed her laptop decisively and set out on her new quest.


	2. Keep Calm

**A/N: **I'm currently in a playing-around-with-structure phase as a writer, so this fic is structured with a mixture of short vignettes (drabbles or sometimes multiples of drabbles, i.e. exactly 200 or 300 words) and slightly longer, more traditionally structured scenes (600-1200 words). Any feedback on what works or doesn't work about this structuring technique for you as a reader would be much appreciated :)

**Chapter 2: Keep Calm and Let the Admin Assistant Handle It**

Tuesday, Week 1

"Ms Gorlois! How may I help you?"

A '_Please, call me Morgana'_ was accompanied by a dazzling smile and a proffered hand.

Merlin was glad he was sitting down—he'd just gone weak in the knees.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"I wanted to say 'welcome' on your first day...and to apologize for Arthur."

He was cute when he was flustered, she decided. She dropped her voice conspiratorially.

"Arthur's brilliant at contract negotiation, but he lacks...tech skills."

She leaned comfortably against the reception desk.

"Last week, I had to explain the copier's 2-sided scan feature...twice."

She was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Friday, Week 1

Morgana was looking forward to giving her report. Not the boring one, though she'd delivered it to the board that morning with much gusto and exquisite graphics. No, this daily report was _much_ more interesting.

"Morning, Merlin!" She said as she strolled up to the reception desk, two cups of bad office coffee in hand. "What's Arthur done today?"

He'd been understandably reticent, so she'd supplied the stories thus far: the heavy-duty-staples-in-the-standard-stapler snafu, the unplugged-Ethernet-cable emergency, and the network-printer-IP issue.

His stifled laughter had become the highlight of each day.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Wednesday, Week 4

Merlin tapped lightly on Morgana's open office door, two cups of bad office coffee in hand.

She looked up from her computer and smiled.

"Ok," he said slowly, knowing this might kill his job prospects but somehow not caring when she smiled at him like that, "I have a story."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_Finally_, she thought.

It had been well worth the wait.

"You actually had to explain how to use the highlight function in Word?"

"Yes," He wheezed through silent laughter.

"And how to switch colours?"

He nodded. "And then he asked me where I'd 'learned it all.'"

"What'd you say?"

"Google."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Monday, Week 6

Their 'daily reports' became increasingly uninhibited and their laughter harder to stifle. After a few judgmental glances from neighbouring execs, they'd relocated to the staff room by the coffee pot. It was a good thing, too, because today Merlin was dying of laughter.

_At least I'll die happy._

Their conspiratorial conversations were the highlight of his days—and frankly a large part of why he put up with Arthur's neediness.

Merlin gasped for air to finish his story; his sides ached from laughing so hard.

"Honestly—" Another gasping breath. "—It's a wonder he can even dress himself in the mornings!"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Tuesday, Week 9

"He actually did that?"

"Yes!" He confirmed. "He didn't understand why, when he copied a report printed on coloured coverstock—"

He gestured dramatically with one hand.

"—to _another_ sheet of coloured coverstock—"

He gestured even more dramatically with the other.

"—there was _always_ grey shading across the entire new copy."

"And then he—?" Morgana couldn't breathe.

Merlin snorted. "He _actually_ thought copying first to plain A4 paper, then copying _that_, would solve the problem."

"That's my idiot brother for you," Morgana said, wiping away tears of laughter.

"Wait, _your brother_?"

_Oh no_, she thought, realizing what she'd just let slip.


	3. Let's Chat

**Chapter 3: Let's Chat**

Friday, Week 9

A new office chat message notification popped up on Merlin's computer screen. He eyed the blinking yellow icon suspiciously for a second before refocusing on his office supply inventory spreadsheet.

A second notification popped up.

_Fine_, he thought as he clicked on it and the chat window opened.

**M_Gorlois: **Merlin, I'm sorry.  
**M_Gorlois: **I should have told you.

He knew what he wanted to ask; he'd been pondering it for the three days since he'd rushed, startled, from the staff room back to his desk.

It was the question he wanted to ask when he'd arrived at his desk early Wednesday morning to find a piping hot cup of bad office coffee on his desk with a post-it that simply said:

_I'm sorry.  
_—_M_

It was the question he'd wanted to ask when she'd nearly run into him on Thursday as he'd schlepped a box of copy paper down the hallway. She'd looked at him hopefully but before he could find the right words, Arthur—_Mr Pendragon_—had interrupted loudly from around the corner with a '_Mer_lin, the copier's jammed _again_.'

It was the question that might well get him fired for being so blunt to an exec—_Even a junior one_—but after three painfully awkward days, he was beginning to think he was willing to risk it.

_And frankly, after the things I've said about Mr Pendragon to Morga—Ms Gorlois—over the past two months, it's a wonder I haven't been let go already._

He threw caution to the wind as he quickly typed his reply.

**M_Emrys: **So, why didn't you?  
**M_Emrys: **Were you trying to get me in trouble?  
**M_Emrys: **Because I'd prefer to keep my head down and keep my job, if it's all the same to you.

The three dots bounced ominously on his chat screen as she typed a reply.

**M_Gorlois****: **No, I don't want to get you in trouble.  
**M_Gorlois: **Habit, honestly.

_And that's supposed to make me feel better, how, exactly?_ he wondered sarcastically as the little harbingers resumed their dance.

**M_Gorlois****: **I've tried really hard to be taken seriously here, and part of that means not name-dropping family connections.  
**M_Gorlois: **I work really hard to be really good at my job, but people write me off, treat me differently, when they realize I first got it b/c of who my father is.

He hadn't considered that side of things. He wasn't quite ready to let his guard down, but maybe she hadn't just been having fun at his expense.

**M_Gorlois: **I'd assumed you'd figured it out by now...no matter what I do, people around here always do.  
**M_Gorlois****: **And I was enjoying that you hadn't.

**M_Emrys: **Hadn't what? Figured it out yet?

**M_Gorlois****: **No—hadn't treated me differently.

Merlin hesitated for just a moment before typing a slightly bitter reply.

**M_Emrys: **And I'd been enjoying not being treated like a servant.

More round, bouncing portents of doom.

**M_Gorlois****: **Arthur—and anyone else who does—is wrong. They wouldn't last a day around here without you.

**M_Emrys****: **Please don't say things like that just because you feel bad. You don't owe me anything.

**M_Gorlois: **I'm serious—I lived through the pre-Merlin era. I told you the horror stories.

**M_Emrys****: **Sure you're not just glad it's me instead of you who has to sort out Mr Pendragon's tech issues now?

**M_Gorlois****: **You have my undying gratitude ;)

More bouncing dots. Just then a second office chat message notification popped up. _Speak of the devil._ He clicked on it.

**A_Pendragon: **my phone has no dial tone  
**A_Pendragon: **come fix it

Merlin glanced at Arthur's schedule. _No conference calls for another two hours._ He picked up the receiver on his desk phone. _And my phone's working fine...so it's not the VoIP service provider._

**M_Emrys: **Is it plugged in?

A pause. No dots leaping up and down in irritation. _You hadn't checked that before asking for help, had you? _he thought as he clicked back to the first chat window. Ms Gorlois was still typing, apparently. A notification dinged from the second chat.

**A_Pendragon: **yes idiot

**M_Emrys:** Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?

**A_Pendragon:** just come fix it  
**A_Pendragon: **now

A notification popped up, indicating Ms Gorlois had replied.

_The prat can wait_, Merlin thought as he clicked back to the first chat window.

**M_Gorlois: **But seriously, Arthur doesn't know just how lucky he is that you're here fixing his problems and cleaning up his messes.  
**M_Gorlois****: **The last four admins before you barely lasted a month each...he's the reason why.

Merlin rolled his eyes, even as he bit his lip to hide a wry smile.

**M_Emrys: **...why does that not surprise me?

**M_Gorlois****: **But seriously, how can I make it up to you?

A crazy, brash, outrageous idea had just occurred to him. Before his better judgment could talk him out of it, he typed a reply.

**M_Emrys****: **Buy me a proper cup of coffee (not the bad office kind) and we'll call it even?  
**M_Emrys****: **2PM tomorrow?

His better judgment flailed about in panic, mimicking the bouncing dots as she typed her reply.

**M_Gorlois****: **Deal. Shoreditch Grind? :)


	4. A Date or Not a Date?

**A/N:**

1) I don't own _Merlin._

2) _A disclaimer which is relevant for the remainder of the fic:_ I'm not a visual artist/graphic designer. I have friends and acquaintances who are (who've intermittently taught me some cool stuff), and I am proficient at googling, but that's as far as my knowledge goes. All attempts at discussing art in this fic are my best attempts to extrapolate; if you catch an error or inaccuracy and want to help me fix it, please either review or PM me so I can take care of it! :) Thanks!

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 4: A Date or Not a Date?**

Saturday, Week 9

He'd been sitting in Grind since half-one. Merlin would've been earlier, but he couldn't decide what one wears to not-exactly-a-date with not-exactly-one's-boss.

_This was a bad idea_, he thought, drumming his fingers on the lacquered wood table. _Weeks of talking about Arthur's ineptitude, but I know next to nothing about __her_. Except that she crinkled her nose and threw back her head when she laughed; except that her smile was the highlight of his days.

Two o'clock approached.

He fidgeted, pulling a pen from his leather messenger bag to doodle on a napkin.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana was running late. _What does one wear to an apology-maybe-date with one's...whatever Merlin was, exactly?_

As the clock on the wall struck two, she stepped from the frosty winter afternoon into the cosy warmth of the busy coffee shop. Scanning the room, she spotted him at last—seated on a wood-and-metal chair at a square bistro table amidst a sea of hipsters. She wound her way around the tiny tables and counterculturally-clad patrons towards him. Bent over a paper napkin, tongue sticking out to one side in concentration, he was expertly shading a detailed sketch of an evergreen tree.

"So sorry I'm late!"

He looked up, startled, then a wide smile spread across his face. "Morgana!"

He moved to stand, but she waved a hand, flustered.

"No, please, don't get up," she said, dropping her heavy laptop bag beside his on the ground and sliding onto the wood-and-metal chair across the table from him. "I rather feel as though I owe you two coffees now instead of one!"

He laughed, capping his pen decisively and leaning over to drop it back into his bag.

"No, I think agreeing to this already counts as one coffee."

_Dang, he's smooth. _And this was maybe, definitely, sounding more and more like a Date—_capital D_—after all. Now she felt sheepish about lugging her huge, overstuffed work bag along with her.

He had apparently noticed her decidedly un-date-like bag as well. He glanced up at her as he flipped the flap of his much more modest messenger bag shut.

"Planning on a bit of workaholism this afternoon?" His expression was teasing, but his eyes said something else.

Morgana laughed it off, unable to say the real reason aloud.

_A backup plan in case you didn't show._

"Oh, I just figured I'd squeeze in some work after our coffee—a change of scenery, I suppose."

He nodded sagely. "Workaholic, definitely." This time his smile reached his eyes.

He continued, "So now that's four things I know about you."

"What do you mean?"

_Where's he going with this?_

"Well, in addition to that," he said, counting off on his fingers as he spoke, "First, I know that your full surname is Gorlois-_Pendragon_; second, I can tell that you're frustrated with your job, although I don't fully know why—_yet._" He emphasized the word pointedly before continuing, "And third, I know that we agree that your brother is a prat."

Morgana laughed and felt her tense shoulders relax. She returned the teasing—Or were they flirting now?—with ease.

"Well," she said, leaning forward slightly to rest an elbow on the table and raising one eyebrow (_Not suggestively, no, of course not!_), "I know a few things about you, too."

"Like what?" he asked, head tilted slightly, as though issuing a challenge.

"One, you have a wicked sense of sarcasm—"

"—Me, really?" he feigned offence.

"—Two," she continued, "you're the only other person in the office who prefers the bad office coffee to tea every day; three, it's obvious that you're seriously overqualified for your position; and four, turns out you're a talented artist—I'd be willing to bet multiple coffees that you've had formal art training."

He glanced down at the paper napkin sketch. "It's pretty rubbish, actually," he said as he reached to crumple it up.

Morgana snatched it away; his hand closed on thin air.

"Don't! It's lovely," she insisted as she triumphantly spread it out on the table in front of her. "You've gotten the perspective and shadows just right—and, here, you've balanced the positive and negative space really effectively."

She glanced up to see his embarrassed blush as he crossed his arms and—_Sarcastically, of course_—countered, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were a professor of art in all your spare time."

"I'm certainly not," she said, "But I studied marketing and communications at university—and several of the branding and design lectures were joint requirements for the visual communications students as well. We revised together, so I saw a lot of their work—this is just as good."

"Ah, _vis-com_," he shrugged. "Fair enough—now you know five things about me."

"Where'd you study, then?"

He ducked his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I, uh...I have a BFA from UCL."

She stared at him. _That's one of the best art programmes in the country._

"Then whyever are you stocking copy paper and fixing Arthur's tech issues?"

"Ugh, don't remind me!" he said with an overly-dramatic eye roll.

"But seriously," Morgana said softly, afraid she'd hit upon a sore subject but too curious to drop it altogether, "You're obviously talented and well-trained—so how'd you end up at Pendragon Enterprises?"

He sat uncharacteristically still, his eyes fixed vacantly on the table. When he answered at last, he sounded younger, more vulnerable.

"I'd been working as a graphic designer for two years after uni—just contract work and freelancing—while building a portfolio and selling a few pieces," he said. "But then my dad died quite suddenly a little over a year ago."

"Oh, Merlin," Morgana breathed. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes flicked up to meet hers—_Had they always been that __blue__?_—darkened and glazed with deep grief like window panes in a summer rainstorm. He gave a forced smile, then dropped his gaze back to the table.

"Continuing to be a 'starving artist' wasn't really an option at that point—I wanted a steady income to help my mum."

He picked at an invisible spot on the table as he continued.

"The easiest way to do that, quickly, was to start temping in admin roles. I figured if I could handle the whole Adobe Creative Cloud," he said with a self-abasing shrug, "Then picking up office systems on the job couldn't be too difficult, really."

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her again.

"I'd been temping on the third floor at Pendragon Enterprises for a couple weeks when the regular position on your floor opened up—with better pay and a benefits package."

"...And then Arthur made you show him the highlight feature in Word."

"Yeah," he sighed, "Yeah, he did."

They were both silent for a long moment...until Morgana realized that the table between them was still empty.

"Coffee!" she exclaimed. "I still haven't got you a coffee!"

She was relieved to see his expression genuinely brighten again as he laughed at her outburst.

"So," she said, absolutely refusing to get distracted by his laugh—or his eyes—or any further topic changes—at least until she'd procured the promised beverage, "What qualifies as a 'proper cup of coffee' to you?"

"Double espresso."

No hesitation whatsoever.

"Double espresso? This late in the day?"

"Double espresso," he confirmed. "The bitter nectar of productivity."

He leaned back in his chair.

"How else do you think I get so much done in a workday? Magic?"

"Fine, double espresso it is, then."

"And what's your poison?" he asked casually.

"Hmm, depends on the day," she said as she leaned over to dig her wallet out of her bag, "But today, I think a flat white sounds quite nice."

She glanced up from rummaging through her overstuffed bag as she heard the scraping sound of metal against wood. Merlin's chair stood empty; he was already halfway to the register.

**A/N:**

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this :) Next chapter's all written and will be posted in a couple days - I just want time to do a bit more polishing first ;)


	5. Mulled Thoughts and Mulled Wine

**A/N:**

This is a short chapter, sorry/not sorry. :) It's in drabble-scene format and sets up the next traditional-form chapter.

_Structure:_  
Scenes 1-3:100 words each  
Scene 4: A pair of 50-word scene snippets (so it's 100 words combined)  
Scene 5: 100 words

_Credits:_ I don't own _Merlin_ (shocking, I know).

**Chapter 5: Mulled Thoughts and Mulled Wine**

Monday, Week 10

When Morgana arrived at the office on Monday, there was a manila envelope on her desk with a post-it on top.

_M—  
__National Gallery, then mulled wine  
__Saturday, 4PM  
__Fancy it?  
_—_M_

She opened the envelope and pulled out an A4 sheet of heavy sketch paper. She flipped it over, curious.

It was an ink sketch of the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

When Arthur next summoned Merlin, she left a post-it on Merlin's desk:

_M—  
__I'd quite like that.  
__(But this time I'm paying)  
_—_M_

When she returned from lunch, there was another post-it waiting for her:

_Deal.  
_—_M_

Saturday, Week 10

"So," Morgana said carefully as they sipped mulled wine in the midst of the bustle and holiday lights of Covent Garden, "You showed me your favourite paintings at the gallery—do you paint as well?"

She itched to know more about this fascinating side he hid during office hours. _But I don't want to step on another landmine—not like last time._

"A bit," he admitted, "Mostly mixed media, but I prefer ink or charcoal, to be honest."

"I'd love to see some of your work sometime—if you wouldn't mind, that is?"

She hoped she wasn't pushing her luck.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He could tell she was sincere—not the way his parents' friends had politely feigned interest when his mother had gushed enthusiastically to anyone and everyone about her son, the _artist_.

_She actually wants to see my work_, he thought, a bit surprised by just how much he wanted to show her and how suddenly afraid he was that she wouldn't like any of it.

Another crazy, brash, outrageous idea occurred to him. He took a bracing swallow of his mulled wine.

"My portfolio's at my flat—we could go back to mine if you'd like to see it now?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana wasn't sure what she'd been thinking when she'd said yes so quickly.

_Scratch that_, she thought, _I know exactly what I was thinking._

Just paintings, sketches, _art_—nothing more.

She gripped the Tube car's overhead handrail harder than was strictly necessary.

_I just hope that's all he's thinking, too._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Merlin wasn't sure what he'd been thinking.

_You idiot_—y_ou know exactly what you were thinking_.

Just about sharing his art with _her_—nothing more.

He glanced down at her, then nodded toward the car's Jubilee Line diagram.

"We're next—Willesden Green."

_I just hope that's all she's thinking, too._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Merlin groaned inwardly. _Of course all three flatmates just __had_ _to be in tonight._

"Well, Merlin," Gwaine said after Merlin made introductions all around, "I must say I'm impressed!" He turned to Morgana appreciatively. "You are _way_ out of his league."

"Actually," she said with a brilliant smile, eyes sparkling, "I think it's the other way 'round."

As Merlin tried to pick his jaw up off the floor, she took his arm and said sweetly, "So where are these paintings you were going to show me?"

He led her into the lounge, leaving his shocked flatmates sputtering in the hall.

**A/N:**

_Next chapter's forecast - _Fluffy Mergana relationship milestones, some legendary art, and a substantial side-helping of endearingly-awkward!Merlin...

(Side note: For anyone who's not familiar with London, the National Gallery is located in Trafalgar Square...so Merlin made his sketch-gift to Morgana intentionally related to the second-date invitation _and_ to the napkin-sketch of an evergreen tree from their first date.)


	6. Art Appreciation

**A/N:**

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.

Format: One traditional scene, followed by three drabbles and a double-drabble at the very end.

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 6: Art Appreciation**

Saturday, Week 10 (continued)

Morgana sat on the sofa in the lounge with Merlin's large black portfolio case laid open on the coffee table in front of her. His flatmates Lance and Elyan had graciously taken the hint and retreated to their rooms. Gwaine, however, had not—at least not until Merlin had shooed him from the kitchen following a not-so-subtle attempt at eavesdropping. As Morgana leafed through the portfolio, Merlin leaned against the door frame between the kitchen and the lounge, his crossed arms and tense shoulders radiating nervous energy. She tore her eyes away from a particularly fine charcoal sketch to look up at him.

"I suspected you were really talented, but I had no idea!" she gushed, "These are _incredible_."

He blushed gratifyingly at her praise.

She gasped in delight as she reached a series of monochromatic ink-and-wash pieces with gold accents.

"Oh, uh, those are from my degree exhibition," Merlin said, picking at an invisible hangnail.

"Did you have a specific inspiration for this set?"

"It's a, well, it's intended to be a study of iconic moments in Arthurian legends. I'd always liked the legends growing up—the only stories where a character had the same name as me—"

Morgana nodded. "Same here—not many _Morgana_'s outside of the Arthurian canon."

"—And I also wanted to do something that would allow me to take a subject with a rich art history and bring my own interpretation to it. I wanted to blend the old and the new," he explained, clearly resisting the urge to pace.

"Will you tell me more about them?"

"Uh, sure," he shifted in the doorway. "The idea with these was that each monochromatic piece could stand alone, but when they're displayed all together, ones with similar colours would indicate thematic connections between those pieces."

"That's brilliant! I wish I could have seen them at your exhibition—to get the full experience."

"Um," Merlin said, "Maybe we could spread them out?"

"Oh, do let's!"

They carefully lifted each piece from the case and spread them out across the floor, the table—every available surface save for the sofa.

Morgana stepped back to survey the lot, still pretending she didn't notice the way he stood off to one side of the room, chewing on his lip and subtly shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a prey animal poised for flight. She pointed to a piece on the floor, just to the left of the table, and resumed her steady stream of sincere praise.

"I love the way you emphasized the sword-in-the-stone moment by only showing Excalibur and the king's hand—very novel use of focus, and the red and gold work very dramatically together."

She glanced to her right at a piece on the coffee table, then crossed to sit on the sofa to take a closer look at it.

"Queen Guinevere?" she asked in surprise as she looked to him for confirmation.

He nodded.

"I love it—I've never seen an interpretation like this before."

"Yeah," he said, "I had my friend Gwen—Elyan's sister—sit for the draft. The name parallel was sort of my own private joke."

"And, unlike the legends," Morgana observed as she realized only two pieces in the whole set had the red-and-gold theme, "You've colour-matched Guinevere with the king, not with Sir Lancelot."

"I'm glad you saw the connection!"

Merlin crossed the room in two long strides, his sudden enthusiasm both electrifying and contagious. He plunked down next to her on the sofa, nervousness utterly forgotten, and gestured enthusiastically at the pair of paintings as he spoke.

"I always thought Guinevere belonged with Arthur in the legends, not with Lancelot." With a furtive glance toward the hall, he dropped his voice and added, "But in the case of this project, it might have been a bit more personal."

"How so?"

He pointed over towards the telly at a piece tinted with rich purple shadows: a knight seated astride a resplendent warhorse—his helm in one hand and a jousting lance in the other—wearing the coat of arms of Sir Lancelot du Lac.

"I based that one on my flatmate Lance...but he and my friend Gwen had dated for a bit during uni and it didn't work out, so I especially didn't think those pieces belonged together."

They worked their way through each piece in the collection, with Morgana peppering Merlin with questions and compliments and Merlin eagerly sharing details and inspirations for each. All too soon, they reached the final piece in the collection—a knight standing over a fallen foe, shaded with dramatic greens, which Merlin called _Sir Gwaine Victorious_.

_Something important's missing_, she realized.

She glanced over at him to ask her question, only to notice for the first time just how _close_ they were sitting. She swallowed hard before plunging ahead with her question.

"There aren't any of your namesake?"

He shook his head.

"I think—probably because my dad first told me those stories when I was quite small and I was so excited to have a story with my name in it—that I always sort of pictured myself in the stories."

He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair and shrugged.

"So I couldn't quite bring myself to dash my inner eight-year-old's hopes by drawing some wizened sage instead."

His eyes sparkled with mirth as he added, "And I'm not _nearly_ vain enough to do a self-portrait."

"Are you quite sure?" Morgana laughed, giving him a playful shove.

He flopped back against the cushions, eyes dancing as he looked up at her with a cheeky half-smile.

"Only just."

Morgana shifted to face him, tucking her feet up under her. She opened her mouth to ask him why there weren't any drawings of her namesake, either—but the question died on her lips. Instead, she was struck once again, as she had been at the gallery earlier, by the way Merlin's eyes very nearly _glowed_ when he spoke passionately about art and design.

He tipped his head to the side and frowned.

"You okay?"

She flopped down beside him and leaned against his shoulder, entwining her hand in his.

"Better than okay."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Hours later, Merlin stood outside the Willesden Green station with Morgana, her mittened hand tucked neatly into his.

"Thanks for letting me bore you with my ramblings," he said, unable to hide the stupid grin he'd been wearing since she'd first put her hand in his.

"Not at all! It's not every day a girl gets a private art show _with the artist himself_."

"Now you're just being ridiculous," he scoffed, secretly savouring her compliment. "But _seriously_, thanks."

"_Seriously_, Merlin, it was a privilege."

A crazy, brash, outrageous idea occurred to him. He didn't even try to second-guess it.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana was admittedly startled when, without preamble, Merlin dipped his head and kissed her—right there on the pavement in front of the Willesden Green station beneath a flickering streetlamp in the middle of the night.

She immediately decided, though, that it had been an _excellent_ idea.

The kiss was shy, tentative, and awkward, but full of hope and unspoken promises—everything first kisses should be.

She could see his warm breath hanging in the cold air as he stepped back.

"Um, I hope it was okay that I—"

"Yes," she said simply, standing on tiptoe to kiss him again.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sunday, Week 11

"Good morning," Arthur announced cheerily as Morgana stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen of their flat.

"Ugh, someone's had their coffee already."

"Tea, actually, but it's quite strong—shall I get you a mug? You look half-dead."

"Just what every girl wants to hear...no wonder you're still single," Morgana shot back. "And, no, thanks, I'll make coffee."

"But tea is soothing," he teased, leaning back in his chair at the breakfast table.

"Well, I wish to be tense."

He looked at her appraisingly over the rim of his mug.

"Exactly how late did you get in last night?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Merlin stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, to find all three flatmates waiting expectantly.

_The Inquisition. Brilliant._

"Should we be adding _two_ plates to the table?" Gwaine asked with an impish grin as he pressed a mug of acrid-smelling coffee into Merlin's hands. He gestured toward the stove. "Lance is making a full English."

"No! Uh, no," Merlin shook his head before taking a long swig of the bitter brew. "She left around half-one."

Elyan leaned back in his chair.

"You brought a girl back to the flat—"

"—Finally!" Gwaine interjected.

"—A girl you've never even mentioned before," Elyan observed pointedly.

Lance added another sausage to the skillet.

"So, how'd you meet?"

"Um, at work—she's, uh, sort of my boss?" His brain was still too foggy to elaborate.

Gwaine gave a low whistle. Lance dropped his spatula with a startled clunk. Then, for a moment, the only sound was the sizzle of the sausages and tomatoes burning in the skillet. The toaster dinged, but no one moved to retrieve the toast.

Merlin shrugged uncomfortably, clinging to his coffee cup like a lifeline.

"Merlin, mate," Elyan broke the silence at last, "You are in _way_ over your head."

**A/N:**

_Next time:_ Oblivious!Arthur might not be as oblivious as everyone thinks he is...

Add'l chapter credits/references:

1) Inclusion of a BTVS quotation, modified. (Xander: "Aren't you supposed to be drinking tea anyway? / Giles: "Tea is soothing. I wish to be tense." / Xander: "Okay, but you're destroying a perfectly good cultural stereotype here.")

2) Allusion to _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_, the 14th cent Middle English chivalric romance, in the color symbolism in Merlin's ink-and-wash painting _Sir Gwaine Victorious_ (although the painting's description otherwise bears little-to-no resemblance to the plot of that Middle English poem)


	7. Corporate Espionage

**A/N:**

I don't own _Merlin_ (because if I did, there would definitely have been a complex and compelling Morgana redemption-arc...plus Mergana endgame, of course).

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 7: Corporate Espionage**

Monday, Week 11

Arthur Pendragon, contrary to popular opinion, was not nearly as oblivious as he seemed. It was, however, a useful image to maintain, so he was not planning to disabuse anyone of that notion any time soon. It was useful in contract negotiation when the other party underestimated him, certainly, but that wasn't the primary benefit. Arthur had grown up watching his father rule his company and his family with the autocratic certainty of a monarch and the shrewd paranoia of a tyrant. He knew his father's approach had backfired, though, because employees—himself and Morgana included—went out of their way to hide things from Uther Pendragon, often with a surprising amount of success. But around Arthur—blond, privileged, primarily interested in sport and pretty women—people were noticeably less careful. So if Arthur allowed people—family and colleagues included—to continue unchecked in their assumptions about him—_Well, that was really their own fault for making assumptions in the first place, wasn't it? _He was heir to his father's company, after all, and he wanted to know what was _actually_ going on around him.

So because he was not, in fact, oblivious, he noticed when Morgana and the new admin seemed to get on marvellously, always laughing together. _About what, I don't know, but that's hardly important._ Certainly not worth showing his hand.

Because Arthur was not, in fact, oblivious, he noticed the three miserable days when Morgana and Merlin had suddenly and inexplicably stopped speaking. Morgana was a fountain of snide remarks in the evenings, and Merlin's face resembled the back end of a cat for the remainder of that week. Then, just as suddenly and inexplicably, the cloud lifted and things had returned to normal.

_Mostly._

Morgana suddenly had Saturday plans. She hadn't had Saturday plans as of Thursday night, but by close of business on Friday, she did.

Because Arthur was not, in fact, oblivious, he noticed during the following week that Merlin swiped a greater-than-usual number of the brightly-coloured post-it notes which Arthur demanded Merlin order specially for him and which no one else in the office used. And when he dropped by Morgana's office on Wednesday to ask which of them was going to do the shopping that week, he noticed that a large number of his brightly-coloured post-it notes had accumulated in Morgana's recycling bin.

Because Arthur was not, in fact, oblivious, he noticed when Morgana had Saturday plans two weeks in a row—plans he knew nothing about. It wasn't as though they told one another everything—_Hardly!_—but Morgana hadn't made a single passing remark that gave anything away.

Then Morgana had stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen yesterday morning after a _very_ late night out. He'd seen Morgana hungover before—_Plenty of times during uni_—but this wasn't a hangover. She didn't flinch at the morning sunlight and didn't ask him where he'd 'moved the bloody paracetamol to this time' (he never moved it, of course). Once she'd had a greater-than-usual quantity of her corrosively-strong coffee, she'd acted like nothing was out of the ordinary...until she'd left for work this morning a full hour earlier than usual.

Because Arthur was not, in fact, oblivious, he made a mental note to pay close attention this week to both Morgana and Merlin.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Morgana stepped off the lift early Monday morning, Merlin was already at his desk. On the chance they weren't alone, she cast a brief smile his way as she headed straight for her office.

_Flirting with colleagues is one thing_, she thought, _But kissing them is quite another._

She regretted nothing, of course, but she couldn't deny the resulting complexity. A chat message notification popped up on Morgana's screen almost as soon as she'd logged in.

**M_Emrys:** Good morning

_He's definitely worth any complications_, she thought, smiling as she typed her reply.

**M_Gorlois: **Morning xx

**M_Emrys:** Could we talk?

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Merlin saw the smile fall from her face. His stomach did a somersault—and not the good kind of somersault, not like when she'd kissed him Saturday night.

The three dots bounced nervously.

**M_Gorlois: ** Sure. My office or staff room?

**M_Emrys: **Not here. Lunch, if you're free?

He hated the very idea of this conversation, but he needed to know. _Too much is at stake not to ask._

**M_Gorlois: **You know I'm free.

It was true; he had access to all the execs' schedules, but he needed to give her a choice about this; he didn't want to push her.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

She didn't like where this was heading.

_But he'd seemed so sincere, so invested. Maybe he's having second thoughts?_

As she typed her reply, she hoped she was very wrong.

**M_Gorlois: **Somewhere specific in mind?

**M_Emrys: ** You usually take lunch at 12?

She couldn't hide her irritation.

**M_Gorlois: **Yes, you have my schedule.

**M_Emrys: **Meet me at 12:15, Aniseed on Westferry? I'll leave here at 11:45, grab a table.

She typed her reply, then paused without sending it. Her finger hovered over the 'x' key.

_I'm not giving up on us yet_.

She tapped the key twice.

**M_Gorlois: **Deal. xx

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The light drizzle matched Merlin's mood as he walked through the blustery cold to the tiny Indian restaurant, his red scarf wrapped up to his ears and his coat collar turned up against the wind. Perhaps the dreary weather kept potential customers indoors; the restaurant was virtually deserted when he arrived.

_I wanted quiet and private, _he thought, _But this is almost too quiet._

"Business picks up in the evenings," the server said, unprompted.

Merlin nodded absently, following him to a table near the back. He ordered chicken tikka for two, with plenty of naan, then settled down to wait.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana arrived, looking as nervous as Merlin felt, just as the food arrived at their table.

They'd fiddled with their utensils for a moment before Morgana broke the awkward silence.

"Look, neither of us will eat if we don't talk first."

Merlin set down his fork. _Best just to be direct._

"Ok, I guess I just—I needed to talk about what happens now."

"About us?"

Merlin nodded.

"It's, um, complicated for me, because, well, you're sort of my boss and because I _really_ need this job."

Morgana dropped her fork with a _clatter_ that echoed in the empty restaurant_._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_That's_ _what was bothering him?_

She couldn't believe how stupid she'd been. He'd asked her out, pursued her—not the other way around—so it hadn't crossed her mind that this was even more complicated than simply dating a colleague. She'd quickly come to think of him as a peer, then a friend, then _whatever-they-were-now_—so much so that she'd forgotten he essentially had fifteen bosses. _Me and every other exec on the floor. _Arthur might be the one writing Merlin's performance reviews, but everyone else still could—and often did—order him around.

"You're afraid I'd have you sacked if we didn't work out?" she asked tentatively, afraid he really believed her capable of that.

He looked down but nodded at last, just once.

"I like you, Morgana, a lot," he said, eyes fixed firmly on his plate. "If it were just me, I wouldn't even ask this."

His eyes flicked back to hers.

"But I have to think of my mum, too."

His eyes darted away again.

"And then things just happened so quickly; I didn't fully realize what I—what we'd—"

He paused and reached for his water glass. Morgana intercepted his hand.

"Merlin," she said gently, giving his hand what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze, "I spent the whole morning afraid you'd come to your senses and decided to dump me."

He stared at her. "Why would I want to do that? You're _amazing_, you're everything I—"

Flustered, he pulled his hand away, grabbed his fork, and began intently pushing the pieces of chicken around in the rice and sauce on his plate. Morgana tried desperately to figure out how to defuse the situation.

"What can I do," she asked, "To level the field, so that you won't worry?"

His fork stilled.

"You can't, not really," he said softly.

Morgana had no idea what to say to that.

"But, um," Merlin spoke slowly, as though choosing each word with care, "I guess it'd be nice to hear that, well, if you _did_ want to get rid of me—"

He glanced up again, his eyes afraid and earnest.

"—That you'd at least give me the chance to resign with a good referral—"

He cleared his throat and shrugged, like he didn't care much one way or the other, but the look in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders gave away his bluff.

"Or, I don't know, let me transfer to a different floor or something."

"I'll do better than that," Morgana said, as a crazy, brash, outrageous idea occurred to her. "If that should happen—which I _promise_ it won't—then _I'll_ resign and _you_ can stay."

"_You_ would—?" he sputtered, staring at her like a startled stoat. "But you can't—it's your family's—"

Morgana huffed through her nose. "Yes, I'm very well aware—I'm reminded daily when _my_ supervisors refuse to take me seriously."

"Then why do you stay?" he blurted, still flustered. "With your experience, your references, you could go anywhere you wanted."

She was relieved to see curiosity and genuine concern driving the fear and shame from his eyes.

"I should know," he said as he reached for a piece of naan, "I've temped for most of your competitors."

"Because," she said as she followed his lead, tearing off a piece of naan to dip in the sauce on her plate, "It's the hardest place to prove myself—and the one place it matters most."

She shrugged as she chewed a bite of the sauce-dipped naan, then swallowed and added, "If I leave now, well, maybe my supervisors were right all along—maybe I'm just office decoration."

"No," Merlin shook his head emphatically, pausing between bites of chicken tikka, "That wouldn't make them right—_especially_ since they can't see the talent right in front of them."

"I'm not entirely sure you've seen enough of my work to make that kind of assertion," she muttered around another bite of naan.

"Then I suppose," he said, a playful spark flashing in his eyes as the tension slipped from his shoulders at last, "You'll just have to show me; let me judge for myself."

And with that, much to Morgana's relief, their effortless banter fell back into place.

"Hmm, I'm not quite sure we've reached _that_ point yet," she said airily, reaching boldly across the table with her fork to steal a bite off his plate.

"And what exactly—" he said, batting away her thieving fork, "—Would that point be?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe a few more lunch dates would help me figure that out?"

Merlin relented with a smug grin; Morgana skewered and ate the stolen bite with relish (_The food really was quite good_).

"So how do you want to handle this—" she gestured between them with her fork, "—While we're at the office? Seems only fair you set the parameters on that."

Merlin took a long swallow of water before he answered.

"Um, maybe we could—just for a bit, until we have a better sense of—" he cleared his throat, "Uh, maybe we could keep this private for now?"

"Of course," she said, reaching across to squeeze his hand. "For as long as you want."

A relieved smile spread across his face.

"Thanks," he said softly.

Morgana grinned playfully as she released his hand. "It's a bit like those 'courtly love' tropes in the legends, isn't it?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"What, you mean secret trysts with a beautiful lady?"

"I mean it's all very cloak-and-dagger," Morgana teased, feeling her cheeks flush hot at his compliment.

He tipped his head to one side, a half-smile pulling at his lips.

"Wait, so are we medieval nobility, or are we spies?"

Morgana arched an eyebrow.

"And why can't it be both?"

Their laughter echoed in the empty restaurant.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Friday, Week 11

Contrary to popular opinion, Arthur Pendragon was not, in fact, oblivious. So when—every day that week—Merlin and Morgana each left for lunch _exactly_ fifteen minutes apart and returned roughly an hour later but always _exactly _fifteen minutes apart, he definitely noticed. Also, his personal post-it notes continued to disappear from his desk at an alarming rate.

_It's time_, he decided on Friday afternoon, _to do a bit of negotiation_.

**A/N:**

Oh dear, what is Arthur planning to do? :/

I'd love feedback on what's working or what's not about the Mergana progression, since short-arc mostly-fluff is still a pretty new foray for me. Pointers or encouragement wouldn't go amiss. (tl;dr - Fic reviews are like pay raises...)

Side note: I've never been to _Aniseed_ on Westferry Rd in London, but I needed an establishment within a specific walking radius for this fic that would also have a particular vibe/price point, which is how I stumbled upon that particular establishment (and the internet suggests their food is really quite good...I was seriously craving Indian food after I finished that side-tangent of fic-research). If any readers have actually been there, I'm curious to hear what you thought of it, haha! ;)


	8. Negotiation

**A/N:**

1) Sorry for the posting delay!  
2) I don't own _Merlin_ (still)...shocking, I know.  
3) Without further ado, I present a chapter in which Arthur is a prat, Morgana is a force of nature, and poor Merlin has a proverbial heart attack.

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 8: Negotiation**

Friday, Week 11 (continued)

Merlin tapped lightly on Arthur's office door.

"You rang, _sire_?"

_If he's going to treat me like a servant, then I might as well embrace it_.

Arthur rolled his eyes and gestured for Merlin to shut the door behind him.

_Especially if it just so happens to irritate him_, Merlin concluded with a bit more satisfaction than he'd readily admit.

"I need to talk to you about something very important."

"And what would that be, _my lord_?" Merlin said with a mock bow.

Arthur crossed his arms and said the last thing Merlin expected.

"Your affections for Ms Morgana Gorlois."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"So," Alice said, poking her head into Morgana's office about an hour after lunch, "Do you have a moment, dear?"

Morgana smiled warmly. "Of course, Alice! Please, come in."

Of all the other execs on the floor—save for her brother, obviously—Alice Manticore, VP of Research and Development, was the one she liked best. Alice, for her part, had given Morgana a warm welcome when she'd first started and had always taken Morgana seriously even when the marketing execs hadn't.

Alice closed the glass office door and, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a cup of bad office coffee in the other, sat down in the chair across the desk from Morgana. She set the coffee between them on the desk and took a sip of her tea before she spoke.

"I just wanted to check in; see how you were doing."

"What do you mean?" Morgana asked, puzzled, as she reached gratefully for the hot coffee.

"Well, it's been many years since I was your age—"

Alice paused for another sip.

"—But even so, I remember how hard breaking up can be."

Morgana blinked at her in confusion.

"You and the new admin, I mean," Alice said in the same matter-of-fact way she might have said that a meeting had been rescheduled from Tuesday to Thursday.

"Wait, what?" Morgana said, unable to come up with anything more.

It felt like the gears in her mind were jammed, like Alice had casually chucked a spanner in the works.

"I suppose it's not my place," Alice continued, evidently misreading Morgana's floundering confusion, "But you know that my Gaius and I first met in the workplace, so I'm certainly not one to judge. And, well, you and that new admin—Merlin, is it?—seemed quite close, quite _happy_ actually, for close to two months there—"

"You thought I'd been seeing Merlin for _two months_?"

Alice nodded.

"But then you had that little spat, oh, two weeks back? And I'd presumed you'd worked it out, but—"

She _hmm_'d and took a thoughtful sip of her tea.

"Now, you've hardly spoken two words to each other all week."

"Is that...is that what everyone else thinks, too?" Morgana asked, unable to decide if it was mortifying or hilarious; she ended up settling for _both_.

Before Alice could reply, though, Morgana's laptop dinged. She cast a quick glance at the screen, torn between the hope of escaping this supremely awkward conversation and the fear of appearing rude to Alice.

_Out of the frying pan into the fire_, she thought as she read—and reread—Merlin's two-word message.

**M_Emrys:** Arthur knows.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana swept into Arthur's office like a winter storm, cold fury infused into every step, every gesture. She shut the door behind her and turned the lock with a sharp click.

Turning from the door, she levelled an icy glare at him.

"How dare you?" she hissed.

Arthur looked up from his desk. He closed the lid on his laptop and folded his arms.

"By all means, Morgana, please do come in."

He leaned back in his leather chair, a smug expression on his lips and a hint of amusement in his eyes. Morgana had the sudden urge to launch herself across the desk and smack that awful smirk off his face like she would have done if they were still children. Instead, she clenched her fists at her sides and stood just a bit taller on her already-tall heels in the middle of Arthur's office.

"This is none of your business—you have no right to—!"

"But I do," Arthur cut in smoothly. "He reports to me. If I find his _professionalism_ lacking, I have every right to sack him."

"_Professionalism_?" she spat. "Seriously? That's the line you're going with?"

Arthur gave her an appraising look, much like he had over the rim of his mug of tea the weekend before.

"If you wanted a fling, you could've just gone on the pull, found some bloke in a pub." He gave a huff through his nose as he shook his head. "I mean, they'd probably line up to get their hearts broken if you simply _asked_."

"A _fling_? That's what you think—?"

"But frankly," he continued as he stood and came around to lean against the front of his desk, "It's really poor form to use my employees like that. But since I can't sack _you_, I'm sacking _him_."

"You can't do that!"

"Actually, I think you'll find that I can."

The world fell away as Morgana remembered her brash promise to Merlin over their chicken tikka on Monday. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. Memories flashed through her mind: Merlin's eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, the butterfly-inducing sound of his laugh, but—most of all—her mental list of all the sacrifices she knew he'd made to ensure his mum was looked after.

_Sometimes you've got to do what you think is right and damn the consequences._

She looked Arthur dead in the eyes and made her offer.

"If I resign, will you let him stay?"

Arthur's eyes widened slightly.

There was a pause—it felt to Morgana like time had stopped and every breath, every atom, hung motionless—before Arthur nodded decisively.

"I've a counteroffer, actually. You both keep your jobs, but—"

"Don't you try to stop us from—"

"—But you bring him 'round for supper on Saturday night."

"Wait, what?"

In that moment, Morgana was struck by how much he reminded her of their father as Arthur repeated himself condescendingly.

"I want you to bring him 'round to the flat for supper tomorrow."

Then the passing resemblance vanished. He smiled broadly as he pushed off from the desk and returned to his desk chair.

"I'll cook. Hmm, chicken, I think." He brandished a cautionary finger at her. "Be there—both of you—by six...or one of you will be seeking new employment."

She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"What are you playing at?"

"Why, Morgana, I've no idea what you mean."

He opened his laptop and turned his attention to the screen. He barely glanced up as he dismissed her with an order.

"Leave the door open on your way out, would you?"

Morgana continued to stare at him in a boiling mix of confusion and anger.

"Oh," he added, as though it were an insignificant afterthought, "On your way back to your office, you might want to tell Merlin he can stop clearing out his desk."

Morgana huffed in utter exasperation and swept from Arthur's office, purposefully shutting his door—_loudly_—as she went.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Arthur grinned, supremely pleased with himself, as he watched through the frosted glass office walls as Morgana's silhouette stormed back down the hall toward the reception desk. It had been a successful negotiation; it had turned out exactly as he'd intended.

_That one bit, though...that was a surprise._

He _hmm_'d thoughtfully to himself as he glanced at his schedule. His next meeting didn't start for another hour, and he'd already done the prep work for it anyway. Casting a side glance at the occupants of the offices on either side of his, he opened a new browser tab, navigated to Pinterest, and began scrolling through the search results for '_easy chicken recipes_.'

**A/N:**

*hides behind couch* So...what'd you think of the sibling dynamic? I'm hoping I'm at least in the right ballpark in writing Arthur and Morgana's sibling relationship but would definitely welcome feedback on how to make their interactions as realistic as possible.

Up next — Saturday night supper (and some answers) at Arthur and Morgana's flat...


	9. Detained at His Majesty's Pleasure

**A/N:**

I've resurfaced following Nanowrimo! I'd pushed editing/posting to the back burner and focused on just getting words on the page...so now I'm going back to do some editing and queue up some long-overdue updates for this fic (and for _The Prophecy_, if you're reading that, too). Thanks for your patience with the pause on updates for the duration of Nanowrimo :)

_Disclaimers:_ I've resigned myself to the fact that I don't own _Merlin_. I've also resigned myself (grudgingly) to the fact that I'm not, in fact, British...so there's bound to be some cultural details I've botched, no matter how much I research or how much I rack my memories from the last time I was in the UK (and specifically the last time I traipsed through Kensington & Chelsea). If you notice any such errors, I'd be really grateful if you'd point them out in a PM or review so I can fix them. Thanks!

Without further ado, I present Ch. 9, in which we finally get a glimpse beneath Arthur's prattish exterior; also, a chicken and a pair of oven mitts are heavily featured.

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 9: Detained at His Majesty's Pleasure**

Saturday, Week 11

Merlin had been standing in a dim pool of lamplight on the pavement in the light drizzle for a good ten minutes, staring up at the elegant white columns and stately grey brick of the row of period conversion flats. He'd expected posh, but this was _well posh._

_Must be some mistake_, he thought, pulling off his right mitten with his teeth and fishing out his mobile from the pocket of his peacoat to double-check the address Morgana had given him.

_But no_, he thought, re-reading her text for the third time, _She really did say Onslow Square._

He shook his head as he stowed his mobile and pulled his mitten back on, flexing his fingers to shake off the chill.

_She might as well have said Buckingham Palace._

He didn't think he could possibly feel more out of place there.

_Gwaine wasn't kidding...she's __so_ _far out of my league._

Shifting from one foot to the other, he eyed the stately symmetry of the building and absently tugged on his coat and scarf in a weak attempt to mirror the dignity and propriety of the square. He briefly considered turning around and walking right back to the South Kensington Tube station.

That is, until a voice in his head—which sounded suspiciously like the prat's—reminded him of the stakes: _It's your job on the line, remember?_

He took a deep breath and slowly climbed the seven marble steps to the glossy black door. The gold hardware gleamed in the soft light from the pendant fixture suspended from the portico above him. He pulled off his knit beanie and ran a hand through his unruly hair before knocking with the fancy brass knocker that was probably worth more than he paid per week for his flatshare.

No response. He waited. A nearby church bell tolled six o'clock. Raindrops pattered softly on the pavement behind him. He noticed belatedly that there was an intercom and pressed the buzzer.

A flurry of activity echoed faintly from within and a moment later the stately door swung inward.

"You made it!" Morgana exclaimed, then blushed. "Uh, welcome!"

She stepped back and beckoned him inside.

"We're just up the stairs—second floor."

He scuffed his damp shoes on the mat before following her up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the flat conversion.

"Arthur," Morgana called as she opened the door to the flat. "He's here!"

The prat's voice echoed down the hall, presumably from the direction of the kitchen.

"_Obviously_...I heard the bell too, remember?"

Merlin glanced at Morgana as he removed his damp coat and stage-whispered incredulously, "Is he this prattish _all_ the time?"

"No, _Mer_lin," the prat interjected, stepping into the hall to join them, "Only when I have to deal with _you_."

The prat held out a hand to shake Merlin's before adding, "And you're late."

"Am not! I knocked just before—"

He snapped his mouth shut, dropping his gaze, and focused on toeing off his shoes on the mat. _Don't antagonise him, not tonight._

"Arthur!" Morgana chided. "We're both here as _requested_—"

Merlin was painfully aware that it had not been a request. _More like a royal command._

"—So _do_ get on with it," Morgana concluded, pushing Arthur back in the direction of the kitchen.

"Fine, I'm going," the prat retorted merrily as he disappeared into the kitchen. "If you keep that up, you'll not be getting any dessert!"

Morgana turned back to Merlin and stood on tiptoe to give him a brief kiss.

"_Much_ better than dessert," she murmured as she reached for his hand and pulled him after her into the kitchen.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Arthur had managed not to burn the chicken; he was quite pleased about that. Turned out he hadn't needed the takeaway number he'd programmed into his mobile earlier—just in case.

Managing the conversation, though—well, that was proving a bit more complicated. After the initial banter at Merlin's arrival, Morgana and Merlin had settled into looking vaguely uncomfortable throughout the salad course, saying very little to one another and even less to Arthur. After he'd had quite enough of watching Morgana push her salad around on her plate with an inordinate amount of concentration, Arthur announced, "Right, then, time for the _pièce de résistance_!"

He stood to clear the plates, but Merlin beat him to it.

"Here, let me," he said as he swooped in to grab their three salad plates.

"Just don't drop them, all right?"

Arthur followed Merlin into the kitchen. As Merlin set the plates by the sink, Arthur pulled the chicken from the oven where he'd left the rest of the meal to keep warm.

Hot roasting pan in hand, Arthur turned around to see Merlin leaning against the far side of the island counter, arms folded, watching him—and the chicken—with just a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"What?"

"Huh, guess you're not as rubbish at this as I thought you'd be."

Arthur nearly dropped the chicken.

"_What?_" he asked again.

Merlin chewed his lip.

"I, uh, didn't think you'd be any good at cooking—"

Arthur cast a meaningful glance down at the perfectly-cooked chicken, then back at Merlin, before setting the pan down gingerly on the counter. Once the chicken was no longer in peril, Arthur threw down the oven mitts like gauntlets on the counter between them, glaring his challenge at Merlin.

"I mean," Merlin said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I've seen how you are with office equipment…"

He picked up a gauntlet-mitt and fiddled with it, casting a quick glance at Arthur.

"Didn't think kitchen appliances would be much different, to be honest."

Arthur swept up the other gauntlet-mitt, but—just before he could unleash a scathing retort punctuated with an oven-mitt-slap upside the idiot's head—Arthur paused.

_You didn't ask him here just to bicker_, he reminded himself firmly. He dropped his guard and his oven mitt.

"You're right," he admitted, much as it pained him to do so. "I _am_ rubbish with technology."

Merlin gaped at him. Arthur busied himself with transferring the chicken and roasted vegetables to a serving platter and the warmed rolls to a serving basket.

_Need to serve it all before it gets cold—can't let all the work go to waste_.

As he worked, he continued, "Look, I'm as surprised as you—maybe more so—that this turned out half-decent."

Arthur knew he had a pretty low tolerance for soul-baring confessions, but of course that _wasn't _the reason he was meticulously plating the chicken—arranging and rearranging the half-dozen sprigs of spindly garnish he'd picked up as an afterthought at the shops. He half-expected, half-hoped that Merlin would rescue him with a witty jab about reserving judgment until they'd actually tasted it—_Or something like that._ To his surprise, though, Merlin didn't say a word.

So Arthur continued his resolute concentration on the task at hand, which had everything to do with proper culinary presentation and absolutely nothing to do with avoiding Merlin's incredulous stare. _Nothing whatsoever._

The silence dragged out as Merlin's shock mellowed into an appraising look. Arthur only broke the silence after he'd deployed every single piece of parsley garnish. He was left with two options, as he saw it. Option One: loose a volley of snide remarks to cover his tactical retreat behind his emotional walls. Or a much more terrifying Option Two: Waive a white flag—_or an oven mitt, or whatever_—and sue for parley.

But this was _Merlin_, so that—_all of that_—was still a bridge too far. And Merlin's silent staring—well, it was really starting to grate on Arthur's nerves.

"Look, Morgana's waiting," Arthur broke the silence at last, his tone terse as he opted for the tactical retreat. "Let's just get on with it."

He grabbed the serving platter and crossed the kitchen in two long strides, casting an order over his shoulder at Merlin.

"Grab the dinner rolls on the counter, will you? And for Pete's sake, don't drop them—they'll _roll _everywhere."

He tried not to smile in relief when he heard Merlin's incredulous, _genuine_ laughter echo after him.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It seemed, Arthur thought, as though the tactical retreat had somehow also been the equivalent of extending an oven mitt of peace. For some reason—_It's Merlin, so who knows?_—after that ridiculous exchange in the kitchen, Merlin had seemed more at ease, and so had Morgana by extension. And not having to watch Morgana systematically deconstruct her serving of chicken in uncomfortable silence meant Arthur could finally relax, too.

By the time they made it to dessert (which was where Arthur's limited culinary skills really shone), some of the usual banter had returned.

Merlin had systematically bickered with Arthur over every subject that had come up—everything, Arthur had noticed, _except_ for his cooking. He wondered if perhaps Merlin was extending an oven mitt of his own.

"So, Merlin," Arthur asked, shifting from quips to slightly gentler teasing, "What did you do with your Saturday nights before Morgana claimed them?"

Morgana rolled her eyes at Arthur, but he was pleased to note she looked just the tiniest bit embarrassed.

_Is she actually blushing?_

Merlin looked a bit shy himself as he offered up an answer.

"Um, I...my Saturdays used to be quite boring, actually." His mouth twitched in a half-smile. "Like, _literally _watching paint dry."

Morgana laughed as she leaned close to Merlin and gave him a playful shove.

"Well, when you put it like _that_, of course it'd sound dull."

She turned her attention to Arthur but—Arthur noted—she didn't move away from Merlin. He was pretty sure that they were holding hands under the table now. He couldn't decide whether that was disgusting or adorable.

_It might be both._

He refocused on what Morgana was telling him, but he'd missed the first bit:

"—really talented. You should see the paintings he did for his degree exhibition."

"_Morgana_," Merlin groaned in mock dismay.

"Paintings, _Mer_lin?"

"Um...yeah?"

"And they're _brilliant_," Morgana interjected.

Merlin turned just a bit red at the effusive compliment.

"And what do you paint?" Arthur asked, leaning back in his chair and feigning disinterest despite his growing curiosity. "Let me guess—those atrocious still life things with the fruit?"

Merlin laughed—a free, open sound—and bumped his shoulder against Morgana's affectionately.

"No, of course not—had to paint enough of those rubbish things in art school. No way am I going to spend my free time reliving _that _horror."

_Art school? Interesting._

"They were the worst," Morgana agreed. "I had to paint one at uni for an art elective."

She shuddered dramatically.

"I hated it. Had actual nightmares of being chased by vases and fruit bowls."

Merlin laughed so hard he very nearly fell off his chair.

"I know, right!? And the—the oranges—" he gasped, clinging to Morgana's hand—_They weren't even trying to hide it anymore_—and wiping at his eyes, "The oranges were the worst - I could _never _get the texture right."

"Well, I'm glad I dodged that bullet—I've never painted an orange, not once!"

At Arthur's declaration, Merlin passed beyond the realm of boisterous laughter into downright undignified giggling.

By the time—some several minutes later—that all three of them had calmed down again, Merlin had an arm draped comfortably across the back of Morgana's chair as she dabbed away her tears of laughter with her serviette. Arthur knew he would deny to his last breath the warm, fuzzy feeling that welled up in his chest as he watched them.

"So…," Arthur asked carefully, lest he set off another round of laughter, "If not the fruit of nightmares, what _do_ you paint, then?"

"It, uh, it sort of depends, really?"

Arthur raised an imperious eyebrow.

"An example, then?"

"Um, okay...I, um, I sometimes paint...or..."

Merlin's eyes were wide as he turned to Morgana for help.

"Your degree exhibition? That set was lovely," Morgana offered with a soft smile, then turned toward Arthur, "You'd love them, actually."

Merlin grabbed onto the life preserver Morgana had thrown.

"Oh, um, yeah—you might, uh, you might like those. They're, well, they're based on things from Arthurian legends."

Arthur shook his head incredulously.

"_Merlin_ painting _The Matter of Britain_...why doesn't that surprise me?"

He grinned at the embarrassed artist.

"_Please_ tell me you painted yourself with a pointy wizard's hat."

"Uh, no, actually…"

"But he did paint you," Morgana teased, "Or, well, your namesake, I guess. Just the hand, though, so it _could_ have been you."

Arthur wondered in passing just how red Merlin could turn before actually melting from embarrassment.

"I'd like to see this painting, obviously," Arthur decreed, "If it's any good, I just might buy it."

"Wait, what?" Merlin spluttered.

"Yes, _buy it_," Arthur drawled out the words, feeling an impish smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I might put it up in my office—a reminder to the _serfs _to show some respect."

"Oi!"

Arthur grinned at the indignant serf across the table.

"_Mer_lin, show some respect for your king!"

Merlin and Morgana rolled their eyes in perfect unison. It was...frightening.

_This is my life now_, Arthur thought, shaking his head, but somehow the idea didn't really bother him.

"Well, uh, if you really do want to, um, to see—"

"Yes, _Mer_lin, I do."

"—Then I guess I could bring my portfolio to the office, or—wait, no, um…?"

"Or you could just bring it with you to supper next Saturday," Arthur supplied helpfully.

Two pairs of startled eyes blinked at him from across the table.

"Next Saturday, supper? Arthur waved a hand lazily. "Same time, same place?"

"Um, okay?" Merlin said, then added, "Does this mean I've still got a job come Monday morning?"

"Yes," Arthur nodded imperially, "I've decided not to sack you, at least not yet."

He glanced at his watch and added, "And on that note, it's time Merlin was headed home."

He stood and stretched, then headed for the hall and the coat hooks.

"Come on, Merlin, I'll walk you to the South Ken station," he called impatiently over his shoulder, pretending he wasn't actually just giving them a minute for a goodnight kiss.

_Or whatever sappy nonsense they want to say. I'd rather avoid the nausea, thanks,_ he thought as he hunted for his coat, scarf, and trainers.

Soon enough, Merlin caught up to him in the hall, gathered up his own gear, and dutifully followed Arthur out into the chilly night.

**A/N:**

Chapter 10's in final edits and will be be posted next weekend; it'll pick up right where this chapter left off :)


	10. In the Tavern

**A/N:**

This chapter is approx 95% fluff. You've been warned. :) Also, I lifted bits of dialogue from 1x10 and 2x12 and wove them into some spots in this chapter. Please note that this chapter (as the title indicates) takes place mainly in a pub, so there is a moderate amount of ale involved. (PSA: Please imbibe responsibly—and _never_ drink and drive, ok?)

Oh, and I still don't own _Merlin_.

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 10: In the Tavern**

_At least it stopped raining_, Merlin thought gratefully as he kept pace with Arthur's purposeful strides along the pavement, turning at the corner to head northward along the west edge of the square in the general direction of the South Ken station. As they passed the old stone church with the bright red door, Merlin glanced up at the barest hint of flurries waltzing on light gusts around them.

_Makes it feel like a __proper_ _Christmas, even if it doesn't stick._

As they continued north out of the square, Arthur broke the silence.

"I'm glad you turned up tonight."

"Yeah, well, you didn't really give me much of a choice, did you?"

"Just take the compliment, will you?"

"Oh, _that _was a compliment? Sorry, I had no idea!"

"Idiot."

"Prat."

Merlin didn't know quite what was happening to their peculiar dynamic, but somehow he didn't think it was altogether bad. Before he could really ponder that, though, Arthur announced, "We're making a stop."

"A stop? But the station's less than a—"

"Watch your tone, _Mer_lin, or you'll find yourself in the stocks."

"Stocks? What are you on about?"

"King," Arthur pointed at himself and then at Merlin, "Serf."

"Serf? Seriously? I'd have been a skilled artisan, not a serf, at the very least! Or, uh, maybe a wizard—"

"Serf, definitely."

"_Not_ a serf."

"All right, a manservant, at best."

Merlin realized they'd bickered all the way up to the door of a pub along the route to the station. As Arthur pushed open the wood-and-brass double doors, a flood of warmth and light spilt out. The merry blur of animated voices and holiday music swirled out into the winter air. But Merlin remained on the pavement, glancing back and forth in confusion between Arthur and the bustling pub beyond. Arthur paused halfway through the door and glanced back.

"Come on, then, manservant—"

"Oi!"

"—Or wizard or whatever you are," Arthur said, gesturing inside, "We're stopping off for a pint at my local."

"We are?"

"We are."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The _Zetland Arms_ was sort of posh, but not quite the kind of posh that Merlin had been expecting. It was actually quite cosy with eclectic furnishings—little square tables and chairs lined one wall, while the back corner had proper booths with dark wood panelling and faux-leather upholstery. Near the back corner, along one side of the u-shaped bar, were a couple of wood-backed bar stools—which was where Merlin and Arthur had been sitting for the past quarter of an hour. It was busy, but not over-crowded, and as it was apparently Arthur's local, no one had shooed them out of their prime location.

Arthur had gone very quiet after they'd gotten their drinks. Now he was staring down at his mostly-empty pint glass, his brow furrowed in thought.

Merlin nursed his pint of stout in equal silence, leaning an elbow on the lacquered walnut bar and waiting for Arthur to deign to offer a reason for the unexpected detour. At last, Arthur broke his silence.

"You know I wasn't really going to sack you to begin with, right?"

"Wasn't going to—?" Merlin sputtered, plunking his glass on the bar which a _splosh_ and launching into a tirade—_an entirely justified one, thank you very much_—which involved quite a bit of hand-waving.

"But you _did_ sack me, remember? Told me to get out by end-of-day or security would _escort me from the premises_! I boxed up all my— And if Morgana hadn't—"

He trailed off as he belatedly registered the pained look in Arthur's eyes, more sincere than any expression Merlin had ever seen Arthur allow before. In the pause, Arthur dropped his gaze to his ale once more.

"She, uh, she offered to quit for you, you know."

"She _what_?"

Arthur nodded and took a long, pensive swallow of his ale before continuing.

"She offered her job in exchange for yours."

"I...I never thought she'd actually—"

Arthur's head jerked up sharply.

"You put her up to it?" he asked, his guarded tone barely hiding anger and accusation and just a hint of hurt.

"No, of course not!" Merlin spat. The very idea of pressuring her like that—it was utterly revolting. "I'd _never_ do that. Not to her, not to anyone."

Arthur looked startled, but his expression quickly softened into something else.

"So, she really…?" he asked, his eyes searching Merlin's.

"Yeah, apparently," Merlin muttered, then drained the last quarter of his pint and plonked the empty glass back on the bar.

"I'm gonna need another," he added to no one in particular as he raised a hand to flag down a barman.

A barman, who looked to be a moonlighting student from one of the nearby colleges, sidled over.

"Yeah, mate?"

"Another stout," Merlin gestured with his empty glass, then jerked his head towards Arthur's. "And another of whatever he's having, on me."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but Merlin cut him off.

"Look, I've still got a job, _apparently_, so I can afford a couple of pints—unless you don't want another?"

Arthur hesitated before nodding once and glancing at the barman, who asked, "Another of the usual, Arthur?"

"Yeah, cheers, Ollie."

"—and have one for yourself," Merlin added.

"Ta, mate," Ollie grinned as he stepped away to pull the requested pints.

Arthur fidgeted, picking at the slightly soggy beer mat.

"Are you—" he asked slowly, "Um, are you serious about this, about her, I mean?"

It was a loaded question, but Merlin didn't have to think long and hard about his answer.

"Yeah," he said, unable to hide his stupid grin even if he'd wanted to, "Yeah, I am."

"Because the thing about Morgana is—"

"Here you go, lads," Ollie interjected, setting down two brimming glasses in front of them and clearing away the empties.

"Cheers," Merlin said, accepting the pint and taking a grateful gulp.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Drinking problem, _Mer_lin?"

Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Only when I have to deal with _you_."

"Touché," Arthur agreed with surprising grace before resuming his earlier train of thought. "Look, I don't...I don't know what Morgana was thinking when she…"

Arthur cleared his throat and took a quick sip of his ale.

"I don't know what she's told you," he continued, "But I need you to know exactly what that means to her. You see how hard she works at the office—"

"Proper workaholic," Merlin agreed, with more affection than judgment.

"—But that's not the half of it. She puts everything into her job, spends hours more at the flat doing extra research, or compiling reports, or—"

"I know," Merlin said, but Arthur didn't seem to hear him.

"The point is, to just _resign_ like that—"

Arthur broke off sharply.

"It's everything," Merlin said quietly.

Arthur nodded. His tone was solemn and his expression earnest and unguarded.

"She's known you for three months, but she's put three _years_ into this company."

"Plus a lifetime of preparation, really."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, "So that's why I did what I did."

The pieces fell into place. _The threats, the dinner, this—_

"She's my sister," Arthur said.

The vulnerability laced through each simple word spoke volumes before Arthur's professional bluster snapped back into place.

"And it's my company—or it will be—so I won't have you interfering with her career or anything else."

But Merlin wasn't fooled by the bravado, not anymore. He'd gotten a glimpse tonight—more than once—of the _real_ Arthur hidden away behind strategic defences.

_They talk about putting up walls, _Merlin thought, _But he doesn't do anything __by halves_—_no, he's got battlements and a __bloody_ _moat__._

So Merlin cut to the chase.

"I'm not after her for money, or influence, or whatever. It's nothing to do with you being my boss and her being your sister."

He paused, a huff of amusement ghosting across his lips, at the irony of this entire conversation. When Arthur raised an eyebrow, Merlin did his best to explain.

"I, uh, it's—it's funny because I didn't even know she was your sister for, um, the first two months."

"Really? How could you not—?"

"Oi!" Merlin cut him off, waving a hand. "Point is, it's nothing to do with it being your company or anything like that. I just really like _her_."

"Then you're certifiable," Arthur replied, "As if I didn't already know you were an idiot. I mean, _two_ _whole_ _months_?"

"Some of us _serfs_ actually have work to do instead of standing about gossiping like the idle rich, _sire_."

"Oh, like how you and Morgana gossip over your bad office coffees?"

Merlin glared petulantly into his stout. _Clotpole_, he thought, with rather more fondness than ire.

"But," Arthur said tentatively, "You and Morgana—no ulterior motives? Truly?"

Merlin shook his head emphatically and was rewarded with a _real Arthur_ smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder.

"That hurt," Merlin grumbled pleasantly as he reached for his stout again. He paused for a second, his glass halfway to his lips, as an important caveat occurred to him.

"But, um, in the interest of full disclosure—"

Arthur visibly tensed.

"—I'd like to keep a steady paycheque, too—for my mum's sake—but I couldn't care less whether it's with Pendragon Enterprises or not."

He set down his glass and turned to face Arthur squarely, making sure he could see that Merlin understood—that he was just as serious as Arthur was.

"I don't want her to give up _anything_ for me. I'm not after anything from _you_. I just like Morgana—that's it."

Without giving Arthur a chance to reply, Merlin ploughed ahead.

"If you don't trust me, I get it. If you want me to resign to _uncomplicate_ the situation, I will. I just...I just need enough time to get something else lined up—"

"Because of your mum?" Arthur asked, a pained shadow in his eyes. He looked away quickly.

Merlin nodded, even though Arthur wasn't looking at him anymore.

"I promised myself I'd be there for her, after—" Merlin swallowed around the lump in his throat. "He would have wanted me to...and I...well, I've got to look after her before anyone else. You understand?"

Arthur met his gaze.

"If my mum were still—" Arthur cleared his throat. "I'd do exactly the same."

There was a heavy pause. Arthur broke it with a sudden _thunk_ of his knuckles on the bar top.

"All right, then, I suppose I'll allow this _thing_ between you and my sister—"

"_Allow_?" Merlin snickered into his glass.

"Oh, fine, we both know she'll do whatever she pleases."

"That sounds about right," Merlin grinned and took another sip of stout.

"Seems you two have that in common."

Merlin nearly choked.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Merlin deflected between coughs even as he ran through his mental list of things Arthur might mean—_Since it turns out he's not, in fact, as oblivious as he seems._

"The post-its, _Mer_lin, for one," Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

Merlin scoffed, but Arthur was undeterred.

"And rearranging the knickknacks on my credenza when you're miffed at me?"

Merlin gaped at him. "You actually noticed—?"

Arthur waved a hand. "And you never did oil the squeak in my swivel chair."

"But it stopped squeaking!"

"Because I oiled it _myself_ after I got tired waiting for _you_ to do as you're told!"

"So why _didn't _you sack me? ...Um, before yesterday, I mean?"

"Well, uh, because I..." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I know I'm your boss, so we can't be _friends_. But if I weren't your boss…"

"So you _do_ want to sack me?"

"No, idiot." Arthur rolled his eyes. "I just meant...if I weren't, well, then...I think we'd probably get on."

Merlin snorted, but he couldn't quite ignore the warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest.

"Yes, well, Morgana's also sort of my boss and we're _more_ than friends—"

He paused to revel for a split second in Arthur's squeamish expression.

"—And seeing as how you haven't sacked me—at least not _permanently_—I suppose I wouldn't mind making an exception on the friend thing, if you don't?"

Arthur burst into a startled laugh but quickly schooled his features into an overly serious expression.

"On one condition."

"What's that, then?"

"Outside of business hours only—it wouldn't do to give the other _serfs_ ideas."

Merlin rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, but he couldn't keep the laughter from his words.

"Of course not, _Sire_."

**A/N:**

Hope you all enjoyed the Merlin-and-Arthur bonding! :)**  
**

Next time: Some professional development...

Notes: St Onslow Square, HTB Onslow Square (the stone church with the red door), and _The Zetland Arms_ are all real places in London...although I took a few artistic liberties. :) Also, as mentioned in the opening A/N, parts of the exchange about Merlin's mum come from dialogue in 1x10 (_The Moment of Truth_) and the let's-be-friends convo partially comes from 2x12 (_The Last Dragonlord_).


	11. Marketing and Miscommunications

**A/N:**

In which Gwaine has opinions, Merlin has anxiety, and several people jump to (inaccurate) conclusions.

**Chapter 11: Marketing and Miscommunications**

Monday, Week 12

Merlin stepped out of his flat early Monday morning and whistled all the way to the Tube station, convinced he must've done something right in a past life because Saturday night had turned out far better than he could've hoped.

_Morgana and I are still together_—which was obviously the most important thing—_and I'm still gainfully employed, to boot._

He grinned so broadly his cheeks ached (the same sort of grin Gwaine once said made Merlin look just a bit unhinged) as he jogged down the steps to the platform.

_Even made friends with the prat. Wonders never cease._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Somewhere between Baker Street and Green Park, though, the clear skies of Merlin's good mood clouded over like the skies above London. He stood deep in thought in the crowded Tube carriage, one hand wrapped loosely around a grab-rail overhead, the other holding onto the strap of his leather messenger bag. As the train raced along beneath Central London, his thoughts raced along the ups and downs of the past few days. He was pretty sure now that emotional whiplash was a _thing_. The closer he got to Canary Wharf, the more his thoughts spiralled.

He had been confident that Arthur had been sincere Saturday night, but Merlin's flatmates were still reserving judgment on the whole situation—except for Gwaine, who as usual had made his opinion _very_ clear.

Gwaine had been _very_ pro-Morgana ever since she'd visited their flat...nearly to the point of making Merlin uncomfortable, as a matter of fact. But on Friday evening, when Gwaine had sprawled on the sofa in the lounge, propped his feet up on the coffee table, and casually tossed a _So how was your day?_ towards a very frazzled Merlin—well, Gwaine had gotten more than he'd bargained for. After he'd heard Merlin's tale, Gwaine had taken a _very_ anti-Arthur stance. When Saturday had turned out so much better than expected, Merlin had of course tried to vouch for Arthur, but no matter what Merlin had said, Gwaine had held fast to his first assessment of the prat.

"That doesn't change things," Gwaine had said, waving one hand dismissively as he'd rummaged through their fridge on Sunday afternoon. "Posh tossers, they're all alike. Oh, here it is—"

He'd triumphantly shoved the bottle of apple squash he'd just extracted from the depths of their fridge into Merlin's hands.

Merlin had glanced down at the bottle, momentarily distracted because, well—the thing was, there hadn't _been_ any squash in the fridge when Merlin had gone hunting for butter for his toast barely an hour before. The fridge wasn't large by any means, so Merlin had no idea where Gwaine had managed to stash the bottle...or the bowl of apples last week...or the bottles of ale the week before that...

As Merlin had stood there, flummoxed, Gwaine had clapped him on the shoulder and dragged him back to the original topic.

"If you're serious about Morgana—and you should be, mate; she's brill!" he declared, "Then I'd update my CV now if I were you."

After Merlin had mixed up a glass of squash for each of them—and had grudgingly agreed to think about Gwaine's suggestion—Gwaine had resumed his exploration of the wild frontier at the back of the produce drawer. Merlin had been left to wander off to drink his squash and stare blankly at his sketchbook while pondering the mysteries of the universe, including but not limited to: Arthur's behaviour, Gwaine's logic, and iceboxes that seemed somehow bigger on the inside.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

So after all of that, well, suffice it to say that by the time Merlin exited the Tube at Canary Wharf, red scarf bundled up to his ears against the late December chill and hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, his emotions were a complicated jumble of _giddy_ and _paranoid_.

When he reached the fifteenth floor of Pendragon Enterprises just before eight, though, it only took one glance at the folded post-it note waiting for him on his desk for _giddy_ to win out.

_Sir M,  
__Secret tryst at 12pm?  
__(at Aniseed—I'm craving a curry...)  
__-Lady M xx_

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Just after half-eight, loud footfalls approached, echoing despite the thin industrial carpet. Merlin glanced up from resolutely stuffing endless envelopes with company Christmas cards just in time to see Arthur stalking towards him.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur demanded, circling behind the reception desk and punctuating the question with a sharp finger-jab to Merlin's chest. Merlin's rolling chair recoiled a couple of centimetres from the force. Merlin couldn't help it—he shrank back just a bit in the face of his boss' stern glare as Arthur stood looming over him.

"Um, I thought you said I—uh, that is, you _un_-sacked me on Friday, so…"

"What? No, I—"

Merlin's emotions had been wound tight all morning. That was the last straw; his temper flared just a bit.

"_No? _What do you mean '_No_'? _You _told me I still had a job!"

Arthur's eyes widened. "That's not—"

"And _you_ were the one who wanted to be _friends_—"

"Merlin!" Arthur hissed, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him out of his rolling chair. "Shut up. Now."

He dragged Merlin after him across the open reception area, out of earshot of several open office doors, and past a startled Ms Manticore into the lift she'd just vacated.

He punched some buttons and released Merlin only once the doors shut and the lift began its descent. Merlin scrambled to get as far away from Arthur as he could.

"What are you doing?" Merlin sputtered, pressing his back against the mirrored walls of the lift that hemmed him in.

"Trying to avoid a scene, _obviously_."

Merlin did _not_ think it had been obvious. He tugged at the shoulder of his jumper where Arthur's grip had bunched it up.

"Well, you started it!"

"How very mature. I wasn't asking you why _you_ were here; I was asking why you were _here_."

A pronounced eye roll accompanied Arthur's statement. Merlin was _not_ amused.

"Oh, because that clears everything up, does it?"

"_Mer_lin, for the love of—!"

Arthur ran his hands through his hair. It stood up on end, looking as frazzled as Arthur sounded. He flipped the stop-switch and turned to Merlin as the lift scraped to an undignified halt between the second and third floors.

"I meant, tomorrow's Christmas Eve. So why are you _here_, in the office?"

"...Because it's Monday?"

"Don't you have a train to catch?"

"Uh, no..."

Arthur's expression softened; Merlin caught a glimpse of the _real Arthur_ peeking over the battlements.

"What about your mum, though? I thought for sure you'd—"

And suddenly Merlin understood.

"Oh! Oh, yeah, I am—but not 'til tomorrow evening. I'll be catching a bus after work—"

Merlin tripped over his words in his haste before the _real Arthur_ could lock himself away again.

"—so I'll be in Cardiff by half-ten. Mum and I go to this candlelight service every year and I wouldn't miss..."

Merlin curtailed his rambling as Arthur's eyes betrayed relief at the clarification.

_And maybe just a bit of envy?_

"Good, that's...that's good," Arthur said absently.

He ran a hand through his mussed-up hair again—unfortunately making it even worse—as he continued.

"It's just that I'd, well...look, I signed off on so many leave requests for the holidays and I'd...I assumed I'd signed yours, especially after we'd talked about your mum on the weekend."

He cleared his throat and added, "So when I saw you _here_, I was worried that…"

"That what?"

"That I'd...I don't know, that I'd missed it...or...or that I'd decided _not_ to approve it for some reason..."

Arthur shook his head distractedly and added, with less fire than usual, "...Perhaps you'd been _particularly _irritating on the day it landed in my inbox?"

"Prat," Merlin grumbled, crossing his arms, but he didn't bother hiding the smile pulling at his lips. "You know, Will and Kara in payroll say you're heartless, but _I_ knew you really cared."

Before Arthur could reply, the elevator began bleeping angrily at the indignity of being stopped between floors for far longer than was socially acceptable.

Arthur flipped the stop-switch again and the lift resumed its fluid, downward drift like the dusting of snow that had fallen on the weekend. In a matter of moments, a polite _ding!_ signalled their arrival at the ground floor and the doors parted to reveal…

...the back of an irritated Uther Pendragon, briefcase in one hand and mobile in the other—through which he was berating person-or-persons-unknown about the sorry state of the lifts in the building.

"—And not just the mechanical failures, either! Too many 'features' for hooligans to abuse. I'll have you know—"

Uther continued his list of grievances as he turned at the sound of the lift's arrival.

"—Just last week I encountered a pair of interns who'd delayed the lift _between floors_ for the express purpose of _snogging_—"

Uther's disdainful expression was replaced by an inscrutable mask when he saw Arthur. With a perfunctory '_We'll continue this later_,' Uther dismissed the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line and fixed his calculating gaze on his son's particularly-dishevelled hair.

"Good morning, Father." Arthur's smile was stiff.

"Arthur," his father greeted him cooly, glancing between him and Merlin with a calculating eyebrow.

"We, uh," Arthur glanced at Merlin and back at his father, "We were just popping out for a coffee." Arthur shifted uncomfortably beneath Uther's stern gaze and added, "Uh, can I get you anything?"

"That's what _assistants _are for, Arthur," Uther observed pointedly with a half-glance in Merlin's direction. "I'm certain there are better uses for your time, such as, say, preparing your end-of-year report for the board?"

Merlin took the hint and scooted past Uther toward the entrance as unobtrusively as possible.

_Where's an invisibility cloak when you really need one?_

Arthur smiled artificially as he backed away slowly, gesturing over his shoulder toward the lobby entrance.

"Just clearing my head before my next meeting—won't be a minute."

"Very well, Arthur, just...do take a coat next time, won't you? It wouldn't do to catch a chill before that board meeting next week."

"Of course, Father."

"Good. And I'll see you and Morgana at one o'clock sharp, day after tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes, Father."

Uther nodded stiffly and turned back towards the lift. Both Merlin and Arthur breathed audible sighs of relief when the lift doors closed again with Uther safely ensconced within.

"So..." Merlin said slowly, "A coffee, then?"

Arthur was still staring sullenly toward the lift.

"What? Oh, uh, sure—not like we can go right back up after that, anyway."

"Are you...are you all right?"

Arthur shook himself out of his thoughts and glanced at Merlin.

"Sorry, just—uh, the family Christmas isn't something Morgana and I exactly, uh, _look forward to_ each year."

_Oh._

Merlin felt a sudden rush of fondness for his mother's cooking, his childhood home, and even for the couple of years during uni when his mum had channelled Molly Weasley and knitted him soft, lumpy, oversized Christmas jumpers. He decided then and there that he would dig one out from the depths of his closet to wear on the bus to Cardiff tomorrow night. But first, he needed to get himself—and Arthur—through their respective workdays.

"Right, then," Merlin took charge and steered Arthur toward the doors to the street, "We'll get a coffee for Morgana, too—she'd never forgive us if we show up with proper coffee and leave her with only the bad office kind."

"Oh, _the horror_!" Arthur agreed, his dazed expression melting into a grin as he followed Merlin out onto the pavement.

**A/N:**

So...after an 8-month hiatus, during which a partial draft of Ch 11 languished on my computer, I'm finally resuming this fic. It feels a bit ironic that I'm only just now posting the Yuletide sequence of an office-fic in sweltering August...exactly a year after I'd initially posted this fic and nearly 5 months into working-from-home because of the pandemic (with a fairly decent likelihood of continuing to do so until this coming December, too). They're not kidding when they say truth is stranger than fiction...


	12. Epiphany

**Chapter 12: Epiphany**

Wednesday, Week 12 (Christmas Day)

Morgana thought she and Arthur resembled a pair of defeated knights as they shuffled into their flat and shed their proverbial armour following the annual trial-by-ordeal more commonly known as _Christmas dinner with Uther_.

"I just wish he'd leave off with the bloody _inquisition_ every time he has us 'round for a meal," Arthur sighed, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie.

"At least he actually cares about your work," Morgana muttered as she kicked off her Louboutins and tucked her feet up under her on the sofa, adding, "It's as if he forgets I work there, too."

"Yes, well, he parents about as well as he runs the company," Arthur agreed, sitting down in the armchair opposite her. "Which is to say: _poorly_."

"A shame no one will write that on his performance review under _Areas for Improvement_," she agreed.

"A shame no one will write his performance review _at all_," Arthur replied.

They lapsed into moody silence. Arthur leaned back in the chair and stared numbly at the ceiling. Morgana picked up a throw pillow, hugging it tightly.

"Morgs," Arthur said after a moment, his voice soft as he said the nickname he hadn't called her in years, "When—if—I'm ever CEO, I'm going to make you write me a brutally honest performance review every year, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she agreed softly, twisting the corner of the pillow between her fingers as she added, "That is, if I'm still with the company."

Arthur lifted his head sharply to look at her. "What?"

"I just...I wonder if there's a point when I should just cut my losses and go somewhere else—somewhere I might actually be taken seriously."

"But you've invested so much—"

"_Sunk cost_, Arthur?"

Another beat of silence.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"What?"

"How can I help?"

"Help with...?" she asked.

"You, to receive the respect and the opportunities you've more than earned by now."

He sat up, leaning forward with an earnest expression.

"I've seen how hard you work and how little ROI you've received. I know you, Morgana; I'm confident it's not the quality of your work that's the problem."

She simply stared at him for a moment, trying to process his unexpected pronouncement.

"How—when did you—?"

"I'm not entirely oblivious," he admitted grudgingly.

"So it would seem," she said, feeling a genuine smile pulling at her lips for the first time since before Christmas dinner. "First with Merlin; now this..."

"_This_ being the fact that a bunch of sycophantic execs can't see past their own prejudices and actually evaluate their subordinates based on what they do, _not_ by who they're related to!"

"In a nutshell," she confirmed, tossing aside the throw pillow. "Why didn't you say something—um, sooner, I mean? I thought you didn't notice...or worse, that you agreed with them."

Arthur dropped his gaze to the floor, picking at an invisible hangnail.

"I, uh, didn't think you'd want me to." He cleared his throat. "Intervene, that is. I didn't want to make it worse somehow."

"Intervene, no," Morgana agreed. "But talking to me about it, like this? That would've been nice, oh, _two years_ ago."

Arthur unknotted his tie and pulled it off in a single harsh gesture, then twisted it between his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were awash with regret.

"I'm sorry, Morgs, really I am."

_If he's actually apologizing, well, then..._

Arthur didn't apologize if he didn't _mean_ it.

"So, again," he said, moving the conversation along quickly, because they both knew Arthur could only handle apologies in small increments, "What can I do? I doubt telling them to treat you fairly will do any good, and I doubt Father would stand idly by if I tried to fire the lot of them..."

Morgana huffed a laugh at that mental image.

"Not a chance," she agreed. "And I don't want you trying to fight my battles for me."

"I'm confident you'd win your own battles without any help from me—if only you weren't fighting uphill all the time." He held her gaze. "Is there something I can do to level the battlefield for you?"

"Not unless you can magically erase memories—make them actually look at my ideas instead of at me."

Arthur's brow twitched in thought, then his eyes widened with the spark of an idea; if she hadn't known her brother so well, she would have missed it altogether.

"What if..." Arthur said, drawing out the words.

Morgana could see the gears turning as he ran a hand through his hair, then stood abruptly to pace.

"I might be able to do just that," he said, grinning, as he turned back to her.

"How, exactly?" Morgana asked sarcastically, trying not to get her hopes up. "You're not a sorcerer—unless you've been keeping that a secret, too."

Arthur laughed—a bright, gleeful sound.

_Possibly bordering on maniacal_, Morgana thought, arching a brow and still hanging on to her cynicism with white knuckles.

"I don't need spells," he said, "I have _fine print_."


	13. The Ghosts of Christmas, Once and Future

**A/N:  
**

In true escapist fashion, this fic trundles blithely onward in its non-specific pre-pandemic and non-election-year bliss, full of unabashed Christmas cheer (and just a tiny dash of angst).

**On with the fic!**

**Chapter 13: The Ghosts of Christmas, Once and Future**

Saturday, Week 12

"Right, then," Arthur said as Merlin bundled his cumbersome portfolio through the door of the flat on Saturday evening, "Let's see them."

"Arthur!" Morgana chided as she joined him in the hall, reaching out to help Merlin with the portfolio. "He's hardly through the door and you're already ordering him about! You ought to at least wish him a happy Christmas first."

Arthur rolled his eyes, even though Morgana was too focused on Merlin to notice. It was the principle of the thing, really...even if she did make a fair point.

She turned to Merlin and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Happy Christmas, Merlin."

"Happy, uh...happy Christmas," he replied, tripping over the words as he gazed at her with a dazed expression.

Arthur held out a hand to him as Morgana took the portfolio and carried it towards the lounge.

"Happy Christmas. How was Wales?"

Merlin shook himself out of his reverie.

"Cold, rainy, the usual," he said with a grin as he pulled off his mittens and shook Arthur's hand. "It was lovely to see my mum."

Arthur nodded, then swept an arm out towards where Morgana had disappeared down the hall.

"Shall we, now that we've dispensed with the pleasantries?" he asked. "Morgana's talked my ear off about your work."

Merlin turned a bit red as he shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes. Arthur left him to flail in the silence for a moment before throwing a lifeline.

"Morgana's mulled some wine, and we've got eggnog as well—heavy on the bourbon."

"Mulled wine'd be great, diolch."

_Not entirely back from Wales, is he?_

Arthur grinned but generously didn't point it out as he ducked into the kitchen to ladle the wine from the simmering pot on the hob. As he lifted the lid, the rich scent of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus washed over him, the perfect complement to the cheerful murmur of Merlin and Morgana's voices drifting in from the lounge. Now this, _this_ was the Christmas he'd been looking forward to.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

After they'd eaten their fill of Christmas sandwiches and the Christmas loaf Merlin's mum had apparently insisted on sending back to London with him, they resettled themselves in the lounge, all still wearing the paper crowns from a couple of crackers that Morgana had conjured up from who-knows-where for the occasion. Arthur had switched over from eggnog to tea before enthroning himself in his favourite armchair: a battered and scuffed but immensely cosy leather club chair he'd picked up at a charity shop during uni. Although he could afford a _much_ nicer version now, he couldn't quite bear to part with it, not after he'd broken it in _just _the way he wanted. Merlin and Morgana had cosied up on the minimalist sofa across from him, cradling matching mugs of wickedly strong coffee. The portfolio lay closed on the coffee table between them. Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlin imperiously.

"What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?"

"Why the clients think you're charming is beyond me," Merlin grumbled mildly as he set his coffee down—far away from the portfolio—before unzipping it and flipping through the pieces self-consciously as he looked for the one he'd promised to show Arthur.

"Wait, stop—no, go back," Arthur blurted, surprising himself.

Merlin glanced up at him, flipping back to the piece he'd just passed.

"This?"

"It's, um…" Arthur said.

He would have cursed his uncharacteristic ineloquence, except he was too busy gazing, enraptured, at the painting of a woman on a throne, draped in a rich red gown and wearing an intricate golden crown atop a cascade of natural curls: regal, powerful, and stunningly beautiful. He leaned forward to get a better look.

"Who, um—?"

He glanced up in time to see Morgana's amused smirk.

"That," she offered, "is Queen Guinevere."

_Oh._

It wasn't the usual sort of depiction he'd seen gazing out at him from famous canvases in museums or looking down at him from gilt frames hanging in the palatial halls and libraries of the Pendragon estate when he was a child. There was no pride, duplicity, or detachment here. This queen's dark eyes spoke of warmth and wisdom and a steady hand at the helm of the kingdom.

_Someone the people would love and be proud to call their sovereign._

There was something arrestingly _real_ which called to him from the canvas in a way he couldn't articulate.

Before he could dredge up anything remotely coherent to say, Morgana's smirk widened as she added, "Merlin based each of the pieces in this set on _people he personally knows_."

Merlin nodded and cleared his throat, then launched into a nervous babble.

"Um, yeah, my friend Gwen sat for the draft of this one. It, uh, it's colour-matched with the one you wanted to see—the one with Excalibur..."

Before Arthur could process any of that information, Merlin carefully laid aside the painting of Queen Guinevere and extracted another painting in the same vibrant red hues. Gold accents glinted on Excalibur's crossguard and pommel, while etched runes gleamed golden along the fuller of the blade. In the centre of the painting, a strong hand gripped the hilt as though preparing to draw it from the stone.

"So...what do you think?" Merlin asked.

Recovering his wits at last, Arthur glanced at Merlin, who was chewing on his lip and awaiting Arthur's judgment.

"Not bad," Arthur said.

He was pleased to see that Merlin's tight expression melted into a relieved smile as he understood the veiled compliment for what it was.

"In fact," Arthur continued magnanimously, "I think I'd rather like to hang it in my office, if you're looking to sell."

"Really?" Merlin asked.

"Really," Arthur nodded, grinning.

"I told you he'd like it," Morgana stage-whispered to Merlin as she glanced at Arthur with an expression that was uniquely hers: smug, teasing, and more than a little fond.

As he looked between his new friend and his sister, he had to admit that the warmth in his chest wasn't just the eggnog.

_Morgana and I_, he thought, _we never had Christmases like this growing up._

After his wife's death, Uther Pendragon's harsh rule had made Ebenezer Scrooge look like a veritable Father Christmas. Even now, Arthur grudgingly admitted to himself, working at Pendragon Enterprises meant that these moments were still few and far between. He savoured the rich flavour of his Earl Grey tea, the mirth dancing brightly in Morgana's eyes, and the ridiculous way Merlin waved his hands as he told an increasingly outlandish story about his childhood involving—inexplicably—a purloined batch of cranberry scones, a grumpy old sheep named Kilgharrah, and a Christmas panto gone utterly awry.

Arthur absolutely refused to spoil the moment.

_The Plan(TM)_, he thought, _can wait 'til Monday._

**A/N:**

Any theories about The Plan(TM)? ;)

Notes:

"diolch" = "thanks" in Welsh, in case that wasn't readily apparent from the context


End file.
